


Cleaning Out the Closet

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF, Hockey RPF, Women's Hockey RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, Animal Transformation, Brotherly Affection, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming Out, Concussions, Crack Treated Seriously, Emotional Constipation, F/M, Forced Out of the Closet, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Multi, One-Sided Attraction, Roommates, Silly, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Unrequited Love, Wishes, mentions of family, soulbonds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:34:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 14,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5518913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All my unfinished crap in one handy location.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unfinished hockeyrarepairs exchange fic — James Neal/Rich Clune

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was for hockeyrarepairs but I never finished it, due to outside circumstances.

**Unfinished hockeyrarepairs exchange fic — James Neal/Rich Clune — General Audiences**

When James finally realized what was happening, he was almost overwhelmed with the urge to call Dicky up—or even Paul, though they hadn’t really talked in months—to come over and kick him in the ass for not being able to see more than two feet past his own nose.

What James thought was happening was: bond-sickness. 

James had just assumed he was going through withdrawal because Dicky had signed with the Marlies over the summer, and they’d have to work out a separation or something. 

Bond-sickness wasn’t that serious, and there were pills James could take to suppress it until they could sever the bond for good. It wasn’t a big deal anyway, this kind of thing happened all the time—James would know better than anyone—and there just wasn’t any point in mentioning it to Dicky when he could just get the bond taken care of himself.

What was actually happening: bond-shifting.

James had heard of platonic bonds shifting to romantic, professional shifting to personal, but he’d never actually _seen_ it happen before. He’d certainly never expected it to happen to him and Dicky, and definitely not after Dicky left for Toronto.

Rather than call Dicky to come over and kick his ass—kind of hard, anyway, with Dicky in Toronto and James in Nashville for the summer—he called him to tell him the truth. 

“You’re not gonna like this,” James said the moment Dicky picked up.

“Jimmy?” Dicky sounded like he’d gotten bludgeoned over the head—like he hadn’t been expecting James to ever call him. “What’s going on?”

“It’s our bond. It’s—I’ve—” James couldn’t piece the words together to form a proper, coherent sentence. 

James had what he was going to say all thought out, down to the very last detail. They had to sever the bond before it shifted completely. James was letting Dicky go to sow his wild oats in Toronto or whatever, and find a new bond-mate. It was a very noble, self-sacrificing speech. 

(It was also kinda bullshit, but Dicky didn’t need to know that.)

“You felt that too?” Dicky asked.

“What?” James ground to a sudden halt.

“The shift,” he said. “I started feeling it the moment signed in Toronto. What’s going on?”

 _Shit_. “Shit.”

“Jimmy, talk to me.”

“You can’t leave,” James blurted out. “The bond is changing. I don’t know why. I don’t know _how_. All I know’s if you leave, it’s gonna really fuck shit up.”

“Well, that’s helpful,” Dicky said dryly. “What exactly is gonna get fucked up here?” 

_Everything?_ James really did not want to have this conversation now. “I just… You know what? It’s not important, forget I called—” he tried, even though he knew Dicky knew him well enough to not only see through it but to call him on it, too. 

“Not so fast,” Dicky said. “You wouldn’t’ve called me if it wasn’t important. Obviously, you know something I don’t about this bond thing. So, tell me.”

James sighed, turned, and bumped his forehead against his kitchen cupboard. The glasses rattled inside. “I think our bond’s shifting from platonic to romantic. And, and if it’s not consummated—”

Dicky sucked in an audible breath. “Shit. The bond will break.”

 

“Yeah,” James said. His mind drifted to the smoking rubble of broken bonds in his not-so-distant past. “This tends to happen a lot to me. I should’ve noticed the signs. I’m so sorry Dicky, I didn’t think it would happen a second time.”

“You and Paul?” Dicky ventured, hesitantly.

James grunted in the affirmative. “I could feel the bond starting to fray right up ’til the end, I guess I was just in denial about it or something. Me and Paulie finally broke the bond all the way after I got traded.”

James sighed and rubbed at his wrist, where the ache of the broken bond still lingered from time to time. 

Dicky sighed and said, muffled, “Get your ass up to Toronto, I guess.”

James frowned. “Wait, why do _I_ have to go to Toronto? Why can’t you just come to Nashv—”

“James,” Dicky said, drawing out a long-suffering sigh. “ _Get to Toronto_.”

“Okay, fine,” he muttered. “I’ll see you in a couple days.”

James hung up and leans back heavily against the edge of the counter. His wrist was throbbing now, the edges of his vision were starting to curl in, and it felt like a leather band had wrapped around his chest. James was kind of freaking out here. 

He had, despite what happened with Paul, no idea what to do now. He hadn't minded bonding to Dicky when he got traded. They were friends during their blink-and-you’ll-miss-it stint in Iowa, and sometimes they hung out and got drunk together (back when Dicky drank). It was also kind of comforting to have that bond and know that, no matter what else blew up in James’ life, Dicky wouldn’t—couldn’t—ditch him.

James scrubbed his hands over his face, pushed himself away from the counter, and went to pack a bag for his trip to Toronto.


	2. Wishfic — Shea Weber, Ryan Suter, Zach Parise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It all starts with a swath of pale yellow across a charcoal sky._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, I’m like 99% sure this trade is impossible even without the aid of magic but… 
> 
> No wives and/or kids were harmed in the writing of this fanfiction because, for the purposes of this fanfiction, they don’t exist.

**Wishfic — Shea Weber, Ryan Suter, Zach Parise — General Audiences**

“The devil doesn’t come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns. He comes as everything you’ve ever wished for.” — Tucker Max, Assholes Finish First

It all starts with a swath of pale yellow across a charcoal sky. A falling star. A wishing star. 

Shea’s mom had told him stories when he was just a kid; Mom said when you wished on a falling star that wish would come true. When he was a kid, Shea wished for the Stanley Cup. He wished to be the first overall pick in the draft. Wished for his family to stay happy, safe, and healthy. 

Eventually, he stopped making wishes. 

He makes a snap decision then, just before the falling star fades out against the inky black canvas of night sky. 

Shea isn’t given to making snap decisions, especially not on the ice. Every decision he makes when he’s out on the ice has the weight of instinct, muscle memory, nearly twenty years of organized hockey behind it. 

Not this.

Shea closes his eyes, makes his wish. He can feel it swelling in his chest, in his heart, rising like a balloon. 

He opens his eyes.

The wishing star disappears, snuffed out like a candle.

*

Shea pulls into the players’ lot the next morning and noses his truck through a sea of unfamiliar cars and shiny white news vans. A couple of perfectly-coiffed reporters in bright red power suits are snacking on burritos outside a van that has **WSMV CHANNEL 4** on the side. There’s another, darker van parked next to it; the logo on the side indicates it belongs to WSMV’s rival.

For a brief, stricken moment, Shea wonders if there’s been an accident or something, but he quickly banishes the absurd thought. If one of his teammates or a coach was injured, God forbid, someone surely would have called him.

Shea sighs, finds a spot to park, and kills the engine. He knows the moment he gets out of his truck the reporters will descend like bloodhounds on a scent. And he still has no idea what the fuck is going on.

Shea plucks his phone out of his pocket and slides his thumb across the screen. He has ten new texts and four new voicemails.

“Well. That can’t be good.” Shea opens the first text, from his agent.

_Hey buddy call me when u get this! THIS IS HUGE!_

The next message is from his agent too. Sent approximately one and a half minutes after the first one.

_Shea we rly need 2 talk theres gonna b a shitstorm when u get 2 d arena. call me!!!!_

Shea clicks on the last message, which is just a wall of text. He’s alarmed by the capslock and lack of punctuation.

_OK U R OBV BUSY ILL JUST TELL U NOW POILE WORKED OUT TRADE LAST NITE W/MINN N SUTERS BACK MINN JUST GAVE HIM UP 4 SOME PICKS AND PROSPECTS WE DONT NO Y WE DONT NO WAT KIND OF JEDI MIND TRICKS WERE USED WE JUST NO THAT SUTER IS PERD AGAIN B PREPARED 4 MEDIA DELUGE C U L8R_

Shea drops his phone in his lap and stares blankly out the windshield at the mass of humanity converging in front of him. His head is throbbing.

It had been a throwaway wish— _I wish things had gone differently_ —and he hadn’t even been able to admit to himself what he was truly wishing for and yet…

Shea shakes his head and rubs his hands over his face. Of course he’s not responsible for this. Things just don’t happen because you wish on a falling star. 

He hadn’t even meant that he wanted Ryan back, either. He just wished things had gone differently—and who wouldn’t have, given their situation? 

By the end of it, things between the two of them had grown untenable and, while Shea was hurt at the time, he understands that Ryan had no choice but to leave.

Shea sucks it up, dragging in a deep breath, and gets out of his truck. A couple reporters spot him and hurry over to his car, camera men and crew members in tow.

“Shea! Shea, what do you think about—”

“Shea, have you and Suter talked since—”

“Shea!”

Shea frowns at the sea of reporters, holding their microphones and recorders toward him, hoping for a morsel, a scrap, a soundbyte.

“I just found out about the trade, like, five seconds ago,” he grumps, gesturing to the phone in his hand. “Can I get into the building or…?”

Shea doesn’t bother waiting for a response; he navigates his way through the gathering crowd for the arena. And, hopefully, toward some answers.

*

When Shea gets into the lockerroom, Ryan’s there, sitting in front of an empty locker, eyes glued to his phone. There’s no placard over the stall, but there’s a bit of sticky white residue where a name plate once was. Ryan doesn’t so much as look up; he texts deftly, fingers flying. 

A curl of hair falls across his forehead and, for a moment, Shea’s fingers itch to push it back in place. He tamps down that unexpected urge and clears his throat to announce his presence instead.

“Uh, hi.”

Ryan’s head snaps up. He slowly lowers his phone. He sags there against the wall of his locker, looking for all the world like the universe just used him as a punching bag. 

“Hi.”

“So… Traded, huh?” Shea leans in the doorway, a safe distance away from Ryan, and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Yeah. It’s kind of been a whirlwind,” Ryan says.

“You waived your no trade?” Shea asks.

“I… Yeah, I did,” Ryan says slowly.

“Why’d you do it?” Shea asks, in spite of himself. 

He doesn’t really like thinking about the myriad reasons Ryan left for Minnesota. Or the fact he left at all, really. It’s far easier—and preferable—for Shea to pretend Ryan was never a part of Nashville than to remember that he was, once, and chose to leave. 

Shea clears his throat and presses on before Ryan can answer. “I, uh, I thought Minnesota was _it_ for you.”

“It was. It _is_. I just…” Ryan trails off. He picks through his words carefully, a thin line forming between his brows as he shuffles through all the possible responses. “I guess I felt like I had unfinished business here.”

“Okay, but… How’d they get around the cap hit?”

Ryan stares at him. If he stares any harder he’d probably burn a hole through Shea’s forehead. “What?”

“I mean, I’m pretty sure we can’t afford your contract,” Shea says. “But hey, I could be wrong.”

“I have no fucking clue, Shea,” Ryan snaps, sweeping a hand over his face and through his damp hair. “It just happened so fast. My agent was like, ‘Hey, Nashville wants you back, do you wanna waive your no-trade’? And I was gonna say no, because I _want_ to be in Minnesota. Everything—my whole life is in Minnesota. But… But I felt like I _couldn’t_ say no? It was weird.”

Shea’s stomach sinks like lead. He also feels inexplicably guilty, which he shouldn’t because wishing stars aren’t fucking _real_ and this is _not_ his fault.

“You’re right, though, we did have a lot of unfinished business,” Shea offers, attempting a smile.

Ryan just stares at him, his face slack and blank. “I… Yeah, I guess we did,” he says, sighing heavily.


	3. Roman Turns Into a Sheep — Roman Josi, Shea Weber, Seth Jones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a follow-up to [this](http://nullrefer.com/?http://archiveofourown.org/works/4279485).

**Roman Turns Into a Sheep — Roman Josi, Shea Weber, Seth Jones — General Audiences**

Shea doesn’t tell Ryan about the time Roman turned into a sheep because it’s none of his goddamned business. They’re not even that close anymore, with Ryan in Minnesota and Shea in Nashville, busy being captain and doing captain-y stuff and all. 

It’s not even that interesting a story, really. He and Roman were fighting about something stupid—probably, Shea doesn’t really remember—one minute, and then the next, there was a sheep in their bed and Roman was gone.

Shea hadn’t handled it well. He’d somehow managed to dive into the deep end of denial and convince himself that Roman and Seth had set up an elaborate prank whereby Roman would slip away while Shea was distracted and Seth would sneak a farm animal into their bed. 

(Seth was very surprised when Shea cornered him in the lockerroom the next day and asked him where he’d stashed Roman and whether he wanted his sheep back.

He showed Seth pictures. Seth maintained he didn't know that sheep.)


	4. Bennguin Soulbond AU — Tyler Seguin & Jamie Benn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tyler had spent his entire life believing he was one of the fortunate few who didn’t get a soulmate, or the accompanying mark on his wrist._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyler’s family is mentioned but kind of vaguely.

**Bennguin Soulbond AU — Tyler Seguin & Jamie Benn — Teen and Up**

Tyler had spent his entire life believing he was one of the fortunate few who didn’t get a soulmate, or the accompanying mark on his wrist. Sure, when most people got a good look at his unblemished skin, they took pity on him, shaking their heads and clucking like hens, but Tyler didn’t really think of himself as someone who needed their pity. He’d just never really believed the soulmate thing was worth all the trouble. He couldn’t possibly imagine being, like, fifteen years old and watching the mark appear on his wrist, knowing that someone out there was the person he was meant to spend the rest of his life with. 

It was pretty fucking scary to think about the rest of your life when you were just fifteen—or twenty-three, for that matter.

Hell, Tyler’s mom and dad had been soulmates with matching marks on their wrists, and not even the prospect of _fate_ and _destiny_ had been enough to keep them together. His parents separated while he was going to high school and playing hockey in Michigan; Mom had called him before he was set to come home for winter break his junior year and dropped the bomb. 

A few days later, Mom and Dad officially filed papers in court to have their bond severed and their soulmarks removed. After that, Tyler never saw either of his parents without a nylon wristguard firmly in place to cover their scars.

Anyway, Tyler figured if his soulmark hadn’t come in by now, it was never going to. Most marks revealed at least their outline in grade school and gradually shaded in, until the mark was complete and you’d finally met your soulmate. For some people, it took only a few weeks or a couple months; for others, it took years upon years. 

Sometimes Tyler looked at his skin, marked only by tattoo ink and not weird unexplainable, magic soulmark shit, and just felt so _lucky_. 

There was no _other half_ running around out there, wondering about Tyler, about the outline on their wrist. There was no other person somewhere with plans for a life involving Tyler. It was such a goddamn relief.

-

When Tyler was seventeen, on the cusp of the NHL draft and stardom, he and Brownie got drunk on wine coolers and shitty American light beer and made a pact in the basement of Tyler’s billets’ house. Sealed it with blood and everything.

“If we’re both still markless when we’re thirty,” Tyler had slurred, one hand wrapped around Brownie’s unmarked wrist and the other wrapped around a damp can of Miller Light, “we should totally get married.”

Brownie had just laughed. He probably thought Tyler was joking.

“You’ll get your mark,” Brownie had reassured him, sipping his own beer leisurely, still allowing Tyler to keep hold of his wrist. “Everyone does.”

“Not everyone,” Tyler said, slipping his hand away from Brownie and sitting back. “I’ve read about the unm—”

“The odds of you going markless are pretty rare, dude,” Brownie cut in. “It’s like a one in a million chance. You’ll be fine. There’s some girl or guy out there for you. You’ve just gotta be patient.”

“I think I would know if there was, and I don’t. I don’t feel that kind of connection to anyone, never have,” Tyler said. “My family’s always gotten their mark young. My mom got hers when she was fourteen. Gram got hers when she was twelve and Grandpa got his when he was fifteen. Me? Nothing.”

“It’s different for everybody, though,” Brownie said.

“Yeah, I know that. But—” 

Brownie cut him short, laying a hand on Tyler’s arm. “Hey, Ty. Okay. I’ll do it if it’s that important to you. If we’re both still markless at thirty, I’ll be your backup soulmate. All right?”

Tyler thinned his lips, clamped a hand over Brownie’s on his arm, and squeezed it. “Deal.”

“We gotta seal this in blood or something,” Brownie said, lifting his ass off the couch to dig his Swiss Army knife out of his back pocket. “Make it all official and stuff.”

Tyler rolled his eyes but complied, letting Brownie nick his index finger with the tip of the blade. Brownie did the same and they pressed their fingers together. 

“No take-backsies,” Tyler said when they were finished and he popped his finger in his mouth, making a face at the coppery tang of his blood.

“No take-backsies,” Brownie promised.

-

Brownie’s mark came in a few years after that night, a shapeless thing that resembled a bruise at first. Over the next few months, it resolved itself into something that looked an awful lot like the wings of a bird. A few days later, Brownie literally ran into a girl at Hannaford with the same mark on her wrist. 

“I walked into her leaving the store,” Brownie told Tyler over the phone, his voice staticky, faraway. “I wasn’t paying attention where I was going and I just…walked right into her. Her name’s Erica, she’s so hot and funny and just _perfect_ , Ty. I think you guys’d really hit it off.”

Tyler _hmmm_ ed noncommittally. “So I guess our wedding’s off then?”

Brownie laughed. “Yeah, I guess so. I’ll still stay Facebook married to you, though.”

“Fuck that noise. I want a Facebook divorce.”

“Too bad I didn’t make you sign a Facebook prenup, or I’d be a rich man right about now,” Brownie said, laughing some more. After a few moments’ pause, he said, “You’re cool with this, right? With Erica, and the soulmark?”

“Why wouldn’t I be,” Tyler asked.

“Because, I mean. We made a blood oath,” Brownie said. He sounded the slightest bit squirrelly; the thought made Tyler smirk.

“Dude, I’m fine. Erica’s the one you’re meant to be with. I’m happy for you.”

And he really was. Tyler loved Brownie like a brother, and all he wanted was for the people he loved to be happy. If Erica made him happy, then Tyler was all for it. He sure as hell wasn’t going to be jealous or petty that someone he loved had found their soulmate before he did.

Brownie let out his breath in a relieved _whoosh_. “Okay, cool. You’ll get your mark some day. Maybe we can have a double wedding.” 

“Yeah,” Tyler said. He didn’t bother to correct him this time. 

-

The not-having-a-soulmark thing wasn’t a problem until Tyler realized all of his Bruins teammates had marks—and the soulmates to go with them—and they expected Tyler to have one too. 

Tyler hadn’t even meant to leave his wristguard off. He took it off to shower and forgot to put it immediately back on once he was done, and Looch noticed Tyler’s wrist. 

“Wait, you don’t have a mark? Seriously?” Looch came over to where Tyler was toweling off.

Tyler grabbed for his wristguard, but it was too late; Looch had already seen. “Dude, not so loud. Okay?”

“Shit, I heard about this happening but I never thought I’d _see_ one,” he said, chuffing out a disbelieving laugh.

Tyler glared at him and crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his wrist out of sight. It was pointless now, but he didn’t like Looch staring. “It’s not that rare, asshole.”

“They make up myths and fairytales about this kind of shit, Seggy,” Looch said, rolling his eyes. He picked up Tyler’s wristguard and studied it for a few moments; Tyler wondered if he was going to give it back or keep it for himself.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Tyler made a grab for it. “Give me back my fucking wristguard.”

“Dude, chill the fuck out. I’m not gonna out you to anyone.” Looch shoved the wristguard into Tyler’s chest and backed away. He gave Tyler what he probably thought was a meaningful look. “Just be careful. Some guys are a little more on the old-fashioned side than me.”

Tyler watched Looch’s retreating back as he left the showers, still clutching onto that plastic guard. Droplets of water plinked against the tile somewhere. Tyler had never felt more alone.

-

Somehow, the team found out. Looch claimed it wasn’t him, that he hadn’t breathed a word of it to anyone, but Tyler had a hard time believing it. 

Apparently the organization was worried now about how it would look to have an unmarked player, though they hadn’t seemed too concerned before. According to one of the PR people, concerned parents were calling up the front office, demanding to know how the team’s fleet of well-paid medical personnel had missed that their top draft pick didn’t have a soulmark. Chiarelli and Julien made vague statements to the press; the organization simply believed Tyler’s mark hadn’t come in yet, not that he was _unmarked_ and, for the record, they still believed it.

There weren’t a lot of theories on why some people had soulmarks and others didn’t. Some people believed the unmarked were being punished by God for transgressions in a past life. Others believed the unmarked were broken, malformed, incapable of loving or being loved. 

Tyler didn’t buy any of that. It was all garbage. He didn’t commit any sins in a past life and he certainly wasn’t broken or malformed. The problem was, there were a lot of people who _did_ believe that and, in fact, some of the played on his team.


	5. Forcibly Outed — Luke Glendening/Original Male Character(s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He doesn’t think much of it at first, the gentle **hiss-click** or the brief flash._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic features a player being accidentally outed via social media, as well as a few less-than-positive reactions from teammates, fans, and media. If any of this is upsetting or triggering, please don’t read this.

**Forcibly Outed — Luke Glendening/Original Male Character(s) — Teen and Up**

He doesn’t think much of it at first, the gentle _hiss-click_ or the brief flash. All he’s thinking, at that particular moment, is: _God, I’m fucking starving_ and then, _my boyfriend is fucking hot, I’m so fucking lucky_. As he smirks and leans across his iced cappuccino to kiss Isaac—clandestinely, he thinks—he notices the second brief flash of light and, when he turns and looks for the source, he sees a couple of douchey bros in snapbacks and tank tops stuffing their phones into their pockets.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Luke pulls away from Isaac, who looks up in confusion at the sudden loss of contact, and starts after the panicked, scrambling teens. One of them drops their phone and Luke dives for it, but the other kid snatches it out of his hand, grabs his bro by the back of his tank, and tugs him out of the café.

“Luke, what’s going on?” 

He feels Isaac lay a hand on the back of his, curl him close, but—Luke will hate himself for this later—he stiffens, wondering if people are watching them now. Wondering if they’ve recognized him. Isaac pulls back, putting his hands up like Luke’s a cornered animal he should tread lightly around.

Luke takes a quick scan of the café; some of the patrons are eyeing the two of them over their mocha lattes, but most of them are just staring at cell phones or typing away on expensive chrome-shelled laptops. They probably don’t have any clue that Luke plays for the Red Wings. They probably just think he’s another twenty-something gay hipster out on a date with his boyfriend (which he kind of is, at least in this world, but still).

Luke sits back heavily in his seat and sweeps a hand through his hair. “I think those kids… Fuck, Isaac, I think those kids snapped a pic of me leaning in to kiss you.” He drops his hands onto the table with an angry _thump_ that makes the woman in the booth next to their table flinch.

Isaac puts a hand over Luke’s. “What are you going to do?” he asks, keeping his tone gentle, almost conciliatory.

“I—I don’t know. I should probably call my agent.” Luke jerks his hands away from Isaac’s to tear them through his hair again. “Fuck, I’ve gotta call Kenny. How could I have been so dumb?”

Isaac frowns. “Don’t beat yourself up about this, babe. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Those fucking kids are gonna sell the pics to Deadspin or something. I know their type. I’m screwed.” Luke bites off a curse and chokes it down bitterly. 

“Look, call your agent and call Kenny. Get out ahead of it,” Isaac says, grabbing back onto Luke’s hand. 

Luke squeezes his hand around Isaac’s before slipping away to make a very important phone call.

-

They’ve been together almost six years now. They bought a dog and a house together, Luke’s met Isaac’s mom and sisters, Isaac’s met Luke’s parents and brother, they’ve exchanged promise rings. Luke’s never once come this close to being outed.

It’s honestly kind of scary.

Luke doesn’t _think_ the Wings’ brass will have a huge problem with it. He knows the Ilitches are big into “family values” and stuff, but they seem cool. He’s more worried about his teammates, how they’ll react. It’s important to not stand out, to always look like you’re pulling on the same rope as your teammates. You don’t draw attention to yourself, you just put your head down and do your job.

If this gets out, if this blows up, Luke’s definitely not going to be some anonymous third liner anymore. He’s going to be the professional hockey player who was dumb enough to get caught kissing his boyfriend in a public place. People will finally know his name and not because of hockey.

Luke’s always played with a chip on his shoulder. He went from a nobody walk-on at U of M to the team captain to an undrafted free agent to a third line center in the NHL. He shouldn’t even be here. The odds have always been stacked against him. Yet, here he is, living his dream—a dream that could be snatched away from him simply because he kissed the person he loves in a public place.

He calls his agent first and gives him the lowdown. His agent vows to talk to the café owner and find out who the two kids were, see if they can get the pictures. 

Then Luke makes the call he’s been dreading. As he dials Ken Holland’s number with shaking, sweaty hands, his stomach sinks like a stone. 

“Hello, Ken Holland—”

“Hi, Kenny. It’s Luke.” He pauses, then adds, “Glendening. I—I need to talk to you. It’s kind of important.”

“Glennie,” Holland says, like they’re old buddies, like Holland would be able to pick him out of a lineup if he had to. “What’s going on?”

“Kenny, I think I’m in trouble,” Luke says. He cringes at how pathetic and scared he sounds.

Holland’s voice immediately goes calm—too calm, Luke thinks, nervously—and serious. “Tell me everything.”

“I was stupid. I was out with my—my boyfriend and we got photographed by some douchebags with cell phones,” Luke says. His voice cracks, and he wants to crawl in a hole and stay there for, oh, forever. “I, uh… I tried to get one of their cell phones but they got away. So, yeah. There are pics of me kissing my boyfriend floating around out there somewhere. I thought you should know.”

Holland’s silence almost feels threatening. Finally, he says, “This is going to blow up, you know.”

“Shit, Kenny, I’m a fucking nobody,” Luke says. “I’m a grinder. A third liner.”

“You play in the NHL, for one of the most storied franchises in the league,” Holland says. “It’s going to be a big story. Everyone will want a piece of you now.”

“I’m sorry.” Luke rubs his thumb into his eye, at the incessant, gnawing ache that’s been eating away at him all morning.

“Don’t be sorry,” Holland says. “We just need to… get out ahead of this thing. You should probably get in contact with You Can Play. I can have my secretary fax over a number and contact info.”

“You Can Play?” Luke asks, helplessly. He really wants to bang his forehead on his desk but he thinks Holland would frown on that.

“The anti-homophobia outfit.” Holland sounds like his seemingly infinite amounts of patience are finally wearing thin. “After you talk with them we can go from there.”

Luke sighs heavily. He’d never intended on coming out, not while he was still playing. Now he might not have a choice. “Okay. Thanks,” he says, sullenly.

“Jenna’s sending over the fax now. I’ll talk to you later.” Holland hangs up.

Luke sits back in his desk chair and grinds his knuckles into his eyes. His fax machine spits out a piece of paper with a website, phone number, address, and email for You Can Play. Luke opens up his laptop, fires up Safari, and types in the website address. He feels almost guilty that he’s never really heard of this organization. He knows when a guy says something homophobic they usually get sent to You Can Play to get straightened out, but he’s never really thought much about what they do. 

He supposes now would be a pretty good time to find out.


	6. Not!fill — Ryan Miller and Drew Miller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a finished piece but I never posted it to the kinkmeme because I suck.

**Not!fill — Ryan Miller and Drew Miller — General Audiences**

Between hockey, Ryan and Noureen's new baby, and the reality TV show, it's been a few weeks since the last time Drew's talked to his brother. It's totally understandable, though, and they've definitely gone longer between conversations. They've gone even longer than that between actual in-person visits. Yeah, sure, they might be brothers but they've both got their own lives too.

Drew's not really expecting to hear anything from Ryan right away, after he goes down against Ottawa. He's pretty sure Vancouver's got a game later and, even though Ryan's still out, he's still with the team. It's not like he can drop whatever he's doing just to call his baby brother and make sure he's okay. 

Drew's startled out of a post-game haze—reporters' questions and the amount of pain meds he's on mix into a soupy blur in his mind—by the MSU fight song, his ringtone for Ryan. Drew grabs his phone out of his locker, excuses himself from the media scrum, and goes to answer.

"Hello?"

"Drew! Why didn't you call me? Your eye... Is everything okay?" Ryan doesn't give Drew a moment to get in anything edgewise, sounding breathless and panicked.

"I'm good, Ryan. Really. The eye is fine. They say if I wasn't wearing a visor I'd probably've lost it, but it's fine," Drew says, laughing a little. "The doctor said when he was done stitching me up I asked him if he'd let me get back into the game."

"Did you talk to Mom and Dad yet?" Ryan asks.

"Colleen called them," Drew says. "They're good. Everything's fine."

"Shit," Ryan says, taking a deep breath. "I saw the replay on TSN and I just... God, I'm really glad you're okay, man. It could've been so much worse."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks for calling me," Drew says. "It's been a while. Miss you."

"Miss you too, man. You and Colleen have gotta come see the baby," Ryan says. "Maybe when Noureen and I have our Stanley Cup championship party."

Drew laughs. "You mean when Colleen and I are having _our_ Stanley Cup party."

Ryan laughs too. ”Right. Whatever you say."


	7. Name on the Wrist — Sam Gagner/John Tavares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The name shades in fully on Sam’s wrist on his tenth birthday, a little earlier than expected, while he’s blowing out the candles on his cake._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally supposed to be written for [this prompt](http://hapakitsune.livejournal.com/280297.html?thread=4460521) on [](http://hapakitsune.livejournal.com/profile)[**hapakitsune**](http://hapakitsune.livejournal.com/)’s [Grinding It Out In The Corner: Another Hockey Rare Pairs Fest](http://hapakitsune.livejournal.com/280297.html) fest. But it took me a while.
> 
> [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/opusculasedfera/profile)[ **opusculasedfera**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/opusculasedfera/) pointed out Sam and John met when they were roughly 10 years old, and, well. This happened. I gathered info from [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/bestliars/profile)[**bestliars**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/bestliars/)’s primer like a squirrel gathers nuts before winter.
> 
> Thanks to [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/unperfectwolf/profile)[**unperfectwolf**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/unperfectwolf/) , [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/ten_miles_til_midnight/profile)[**ten_miles_til_midnight**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/ten_miles_til_midnight/) , [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/rekishi/profile)[**rekishi**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/rekishi/) , and [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/amuse/profile)[**amuse**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/amuse/) for looking this over once upon a time, and giving me their thoughts.
> 
> I don’t know if Sam and Steven Stamkos were/are tight at all but this is fiction, so...

**Name on the Wrist — Sam Gagner/John Tavares — Teen and Up**

The name shades in fully on Sam’s wrist on his tenth birthday, a little earlier than expected, while he’s blowing out the candles on his cake. 

He feels something brush gently over the skin on his right wrist, with the light touch of a felt tip pen, and glances down. Sam watches with breathless fascination as a solid, block **J** colors in and is quickly followed by an **o** and then an **h**. 

Sam wonders for a second if this is when he should make his birthday wish, then discards that thought immediately. He’s ten, he’s not about to waste a perfectly good birthday wish on someone he’s never even met and might not meet until he’s in high school or, worse yet, a _grown up_. For most people, the name comes in when they’re in high school, or sometimes when they’re even older. 

The thing is, you don’t know when you’ll meet the person whose name is written into your skin, you just know that they’re out there somewhere. Part of Sam has always wanted to go searching for them, like a big adventure—he likes adventures—but his mom and dad have never been fans of that idea. He’s okay with waiting, though.

Later, Sam asks his mom if it’s possible he might never meet John at all, because he’s been wondering a lot lately, ever since his name came in. It isn’t the kind of question he feels like he can ask one of his teachers or even Dad. 

“I suppose anything is possible,” Mom says.

“What if you did meet them but one of you lived on the moon and you were really far away from each other?” Sam asks.

“You’d find some way to make it work,” Mom says, her tone firm and resolute, as she lifts her hand to brush a tendril of hair off her forehead. He sees loops of black ink on her own wrist, his dad’s name, just under the cuff of her sleeve.

Sam looks at the name on his own wrist— **John Tavares** , printed in a bold, awkward hand—and glances back up at his mother. She smiles at him and caresses his cheek. 

He wants to trust that his mom is right. He’s pretty sure she is.

*

 **John Tavares**. 

Sam’s soulmate, the person he’s going to spend the rest of his life with, is—he figures—a boy named John. It’s a lot for him to take in, even though he’s been prepared for this to happen since he was a little kid. His mom used to read Sam and his sisters old fairytales about princes and princesses who had names fade in on their wrists, only to be kept apart by fire breathing dragons or evil stepmothers. 

Sam doesn’t know any Johns though—a couple Jacks, a Jonny, even a Johnathan—and he wonders if maybe God made a mistake. 

His mom says God doesn’t make mistakes when it comes to the names, but Sam reminds her of the people whose names don’t come in at all.

“That’s a myth,” his mom says. “No one’s ever seen anyone without a name on their wrist.”

“But Steven said—”

Steven is one of Sam’s friends. He’s a little younger than Sam, blond and beaky, and just as gifted as Sam is at hockey. His own name hasn’t come in yet, and he’s practically Sam’s age. Steven’s mom took him to specialists all over Ontario, worried that he might be one of the nameless. The doctor had just prescribed her a wrist guard for Steven to wear so he wouldn’t get teased by the other kids at his school for being a “late bloomer.”

Sam had overheard his mom and Mrs. Stamkos speaking in hushed voices about _the nameless_ once, but when they realized he’d walked into the living room, his mom had immediately changed the subject to his dad’s customized backyard rinks.

“Steven has an overactive imagination,” Mom says, clucking her tongue at Sam and shaking her head.

“Steven wouldn’t lie,” Sam insists, rubbing at his wrist, tracing a finger over the letters. “His name hasn’t come in yet and he’s my age.”

“It’s possible his soulmate hasn’t even been born yet,” Sam’s mom points out, entirely too sensibly.

Sam wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Really? But that would make him or her way younger than Steven,” Sam says.

His mom just shrugs, unsure or unwilling to explain any more.

It’s all for nothing anyway. Steven’s name comes in a few weeks later, all curly script and fancy flourishes that twist like vines across his wrist, spelling out **Sandra Porzio**. Steven is flush with excitement when he comes over to show Sam, baring his wrist proudly. His wrist guard is hanging from his arm limply, the snaps and straps dangling.

Sam grabs Steven’s wrist and lifts it, turns it, inspecting the name, the curling letters. “She has pretty writing,” Sam announces. “I bet she’s pretty too.”

“I hope so,” Steven says, twisting his wrist out of Sam’s hand. “But even if she wasn’t, I’m sure I wouldn’t care because it’s _her_ name is on my wrist and not some other girl’s.” He tugs the wrist guard back over the name and snaps and velcros it back into place.

“You don’t need to wear that anymore,” Sam points out.

“I know. I guess I’m just used to always having it on,” Steven says, pulling his sleeve down over the guard. “It’s kinda cool to have a secret anyway.”

“It’s not a secret. I know what’s under it, and your mom and dad do too,” Sam says.

Steven rolls his eyes. “It’s a secret from everyone else, duh.”

Sam smiles at that, likes that he’s being let in on Steven’s secret. It actually makes him feel kind of important just then. He’s being trusted with this info. Steven trusts him.

“So, have you met any John Tavareses yet?” Steven asks abruptly.

Sam reels from the mental whiplash, but manages to steer himself in the right direction. “Not yet. Mom took me for my check-up and the doctor said that sometimes you don’t even meet each other for years and years.”

“Then what’s the point of it coming in now,” Steven asks, huffing.

“He said everyone’s a little different,” Sam says. “Some people always know who they’re gonna end up with, and some people don’t find out until they’re, like, eighty-five and in a nursing home.”

“It doesn’t seem fair,” Steven muses, twisting his face like he tastes something funny, sour, like lemons.

“That’s just the way it is,” Sam says, shrugging his shoulders. “You wanna go skate?”

“Sure,” Steven says, breaking into a grin, their conversation immediately forgotten. 

After the two of them grab their gear out of their hockey bags, they tear out of the house for the homemade rink Sam’s dad built for him in their backyard. The rink is something of a wonder— _eighth wonder of the world,_ Sam likes to call it—carved out of the pond behind Sam’s house by his dad and his rink-building company. It even has boards like a real NHL rink, and painted-on lines too. They couldn’t find a small enough Zamboni to clean the ice surface, so Sam floods the ice himself with a garden hose and tends to his rink lovingly.

Sam stops suddenly, ankle-deep in snow. There’s a strange kid skating laps on his rink, balancing a puck on the end of his stick blade. He wears a navy winter jacket at least three sizes too big for him; the sleeves come down over his hands and the jacket flaps behind him like birds’ wings as he skates in graceful circles.

Steven collides with Sam’s back and they both go tumbling in the snow, down the banks, their gear flying.

“Why’d you just stop,” Steven gasps, brushing snow off his reddened face. He gets up and brushes more snow off the front of his jacket and pants.

Sam pushes himself to his feet. “Who are you? What do you think you’re doing? This is my rink,” he calls out to the intruder.

The kid looks up from his stick blade and their eyes meet. Something twists inside Sam’s chest, like a key turning in a lock. The kid acknowledges him with a nod and he comes to stop in front of Sam and Steven.

“I’m John,” he says. “Your dad said I could use the rink when you weren’t around. He said you weren’t gonna be back ’til later.”

Sam feels his initial annoyance start to ebb away. “I’m Sam Gagner and this is Steven Stamkos.” Sam nudges Steven in the side with his elbow.

While John explains that he’s new in town and Sam’s dad generously offered to let John practice at their rink, Sam tries to sneak a glimpse of John’s wrist, to see if the names match up. The sleeves of John’s winter jacket are too long, though, and the cuffs are pulled down over the tops of his gloves. Sam can’t see any skin.

Sam gets the sense that both John and Steven are watching him expectantly now, so he cuts back into the conversation. 

“—and my mom heard about the rinks your dad builds, so she asked if he could build us one, and he said he would. But while we’re waiting, he said we can use yours when you’re not around,” John says.

“That’s fine,” Sam says, hoping it’s the right thing to say. “You wanna play with us?”

John looks at Steven and then Sam. Their eyes meet again and John smiles at him, warm and welcoming. Sam’s almost surprised the snow doesn’t start thawing right then and there from the warmth of John’s smile. 

“Sure.”

*

Sam finds out a few days later, almost by accident, that his new friend is John Tavares, and his own name is spelled out on the soft skin of John’s wrist.

They’re playing a competitive game of NHL ’94 on Sam’s old SNES, when John throws his controller at Sam after Sam pulls off a disgusting deke with Gretzky to score a goal. Sam grins at him and grabs the controller, preparing to chuck it back at him, when he catches a glimpse of John’s bare wrist. The guard had come loose during the game and slipped down, and Sam can see the beginnings of a name. A big, loopy **S** , an **A** in very familiar handwriting.

Sam’s blood goes cold and he drops the controller to grab John by the wrist.

“Hey, what’re you doing?” John tries to jerk his wrist out of Sam’s grip, but Sam just holds on tighter.

“You have my name on your wrist.” Sam sits back heavily on the carpet, with a thump. “You’re John. My John.” He tugs his sleeve back to show John his wrist and the name that lives there.

John doesn’t say anything for what feels like a long while, dark eyes trained on the name on Sam’s wrist. Finally, he pulls his eyes away and looks up at Sam. 

“I knew it was you. When we first met, somehow I just knew,” John says, folding his hands in his lap. “The name on my wrist started to feel more like a bruise.”

“Now what?” Sam asks. 

Now what?

They’re ten. They have a whole lifetime ahead of them before they even think of going down to City Hall and applying for a license, registering with the bureau that’s in charge of these sorts of things. Sam had thought he’d be more excited that he found John— _his_ John—but all he really wants to do right now is grab his stick and skates and go play some hockey.

“Let’s go play some hockey,” John says, firmly, as if he can read Sam’s mind. 

As if this solves everything.

Actually, now that Sam thinks about it, it kind of does. He jumps up, grabs his skates off the metal hook in the back of his closet, and settles on the end of the bed to slide them on. John digs his skates out of his duffel bag and they sit on the end of the bed in silence, tiny fingers working out the knots in their skate laces.

*

Sam and John grow up together, entwined in the other’s life like those skate laces. Sam’s mom likes to tease that it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins, their lives have become so entangled. 

They make plans together, plan for a life together.

Hockey has other plans for them, though.


	8. This is Silly — James Neal/Neil Walker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil Walker was a player for the Pittsburgh Pirates. He and James Neal wore the same number and there are some pics floating around of them wearing each other's jerseys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to fill my own [prompt](http://nullrefer.com/?http://thesinbin.dreamwidth.org/1008.html?thread=163568#cmt163568) at [](http://thesinbin.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**thesinbin**](http://thesinbin.dreamwidth.org/).
> 
> This is silly.

**This is Silly — James Neal/Neil Walker — Teen and Up**

James invites Neil down to Nashville for a game—after the World Series, of course, just to be safe—because it’s the polite thing to do, and James is nothing if not a polite, upstanding guy. After the Trade— _Trade_ with a capital ‘T’—he and Neil kept up through text messages as best they can, but it just wasn’t the same. A few words on a tiny iPhone screen can’t compare to seeing his buddy in person.

Well, it’s not really like they were super close when James was in Pittsburgh anyway, but it feels different now. It’s almost like whenever James fires off a text to congratulate Neil on a no-doubter of a homerun or a slickly turned double play, or to console him after a tough loss, he can actually hear the distance between them as he hits **SEND** and his phone makes that little _whooshing_ sound that’s apparently supposed to be his text message flying back off to Pittsburgh.

Which is kind of weird.

It’s not like this when he texts Paulie, and he and Paulie were definitely closer than he and Neil ever were. James lived with Paulie for forever, and when he finally _did_ move out he only ended up moving across the street. People used to joke about Paulie being his boyfriend sometimes, which was kind of awkward. 

(Even if James had wanted Paulie to be his boyfriend—which he didn’t, but even if he did—it never would have worked out. Paulie was definitely into girls.)

(James was his roommate, after all. He _heard_ things.)

Anyway, James had always figured if any of his bros was going to be mistaken for his boyfriend it would have been Paulie.

“Neil isn’t my boyfriend,” James says calmly.

“All right, but it’s totally cool if he _is_ your boyfriend,” Shea says, hulking in front of James’ locker as nonchalantly as he can manage (which is to say: not at all). “And if anyone gives you crap about it, just direct them to me.”

“Okay. But he’s not my boyfriend,” James says. “He’s my Pittsburgh bro. He’s a baseball player with the Pirates.”

“I thought Paul Martin was your Pittsburgh bro,” Shea says, cutting a hand through the air regally.

“He is. They both are. Stop distracting me.” James scowls and sweeps a hand through his hair. “Look, he’s just coming to the game because the Pens are in town and he’s my friend and he doesn’t have anything better to do and he’s not my boyfriend.”

Shea’s expression goes captainly blank as he puts a condescending hand on James’ shoulder (if hand placement can be considered condescending). 

(And James thinks it totally can.)

“Okay,” Shea says very slowly, enunciating every syllable of the word. He squeezes James’ shoulder in a manner James thinks Shea thinks is encouraging. It’s not. “It’s cool.”

“Thanks,” James says, shrugging Shea’s hand off.

Shea grunts his approval and wanders off to go intimidate some of their teammates. James slumps back against his locker and sighs heavily, shaking his damp, unruly hair out of his eyes. He’s already sweating like a pig and they haven’t even had their pre-game skate yet. 

Fuck you very much, Shea Weber. 

-

James drags Neil out with him and the guys after the game for drinks. It’s a Nashville loss, but they don’t talk about it much, mostly because James is kind of—okay, totally—responsible for Crosby’s game winning goal and he’s touchy. Everyone wants to meet James’s Pittsburgh bro, especially Shea Weber, and James has a feeling he should probably be worried Shea’s so eager to buddy up to Neil.

James sits at the far end of the table they stake out, nurses a mixed drink, and just observes. Shea’s talking Neil’s ear off about shit, probably dogs or something, his hands flying through the air. At one point, Shea mimics swinging a baseball bat and James remembers that Shea’s a big Blue Jays fan. He’s probably making a pitiful attempt at smack talk or something, but the Jays are firmly entrenched in fourth place this year and it’s not looking good.

James grew up a Blue Jays fan, like most kids he knows, but he’s on the Pirates’ bandwagon now. He kind of fell in love with them a few years ago, when they were bad but you could tell they were just going to be something special in a few years. James had wanted to say he’d been there from the start, that he’d seen the Pirates at their worst and had been there when they finally put it all together. Of course they’re probably going to run away with the NL Central in James’s first year in Nashville, but whatever. He’s taking it anyway. 

It totally counts.

“It doesn’t count,” Paulie says.

“It does too.” James wraps his hands around his tankard of beer and takes a careful sip. He’s kind of drunk now and he doesn’t want to accidentally spill his drink.

“Does not,” Paulie counters.

“You’re just jealous that Neil’s my friend and not yours.”


	9. Smitty/Abby Bros to Lovers — Brendan Smith/Justin Abdelkader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a Christmas fic for _mydecember_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **_mydecember_**](http://_mydecember_.livejournal.com/) asked for: _Red Wings fic! Any pairing, any rating, I'm not picky._
> 
> Abby’s injury is ~inspired~ by the concussion he suffered in a game against the Pittsburgh Penguins but, for all intents and purposes, this fic isn’t based on any real life events. Let’s say this is set an indeterminable amount of time in the future.
> 
> I mean no ill-will toward Rich Clune. Judging by the glimpse I got of his twitter, he seems like a delight. He got picked because he's highly-penalized and has a clean rapsheet.
> 
> I’m no doctor, so it’s possible, despite my research, that I got some of the details about the injury and treatment/aftercare/etc. wrong. If so, please let me know and I’ll try to fix it.
> 
> Abby’s (fictional) cats are probably [Chartreux](http://nullrefer.com/?http://www.cfainc.org/Breeds/BreedsCJ/Chartreux.aspx).

**Smitty/Abby Bros to Lovers — Brendan Smith/Justin Abdelkader — Teen and Up**

Abby is battling in the corner for the puck, a couple Preds draped all over him, when one of the forwards flies in recklessly, elbows up. Brendan watches it unfold in slow motion from the bench, and he feels his stomach sink like a stone. He leans forward, bangs his stick, yells “Get your head up!” but he doesn’t think Abby can hear him.

Abby turns just a bit, gets an elbow up high around the head, and then he drops on the ice like a sack of bricks. Brendan jumps up, grabbing onto the boards like he’s going to hoist himself onto the ice, but he feels his jersey snag on something. When he looks back, Kuba just shakes his head and Brendan settles back down on the bench.

Abby lay there like a rag doll, arms and legs splayed wide, staring up at the rafters blindly. Brendan tightens his hands around his stick and grits his teeth; he knows what that blank look in Abby’s eyes means. He feels Kuba shift next to him, into him, nudging his shoulder gently.

The team trainer, Piet, leaps over the boards and shuffles across the ice to Abby. Brendan spots a paramedic crew wheeling a stretcher after him, loaded with a backboard, immobilizer for his neck and head, and first aid kit.

Brendan’s stomach sinks to his knees and he drops his head against the knob of his hockey stick. He can’t bear to look.

“Shit. Shit shit shit.” Brendan tries to remember which of the Preds hit Abby, but he can’t conjure up a name or number. He’ll have to check the video later and file the culprit’s identity away for future reference.

“He’s moving, I think,” Kuba says, nudging Brendan again with his elbow. 

Brendan thinks he’s trying to be reassuring but it really isn’t fucking helping. Even with his eyes closed, he can still see flashes of Abby sprawling out on the ice, limp and boneless, eyes blank and mouth slack.

He opens his eyes and immediately searches out Piet and Abby across the ice.

Piet has finally gotten to Abby’s side and he crouches down beside him now, pulling things out of the pouch at his waist. Brendan spots what looks like a flashlight pen, which he shines in Abby’s eyes as he says something to him that Brendan loses in the nervous din of the fans. 

It feels like forever, but Abby finally blinks, nods a little. Brendan sucks a breath in and lets it out slowly, as the frantic, worried beat of his heart starts to settle.

Abby doesn’t move, though, and Piet motions to the paramedics, who wheel the stretcher closer and grab the backboard.

“It’s just to be safe, Smitty,” Kuba says, and it’s like he’s reading Brendan’s mind. “He’ll be okay.”

Brendan frowns. “Did you catch the name of the guy who hit him?”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Kuba warns.

“I won’t. It’s just for future reference,” Brendan promises.

Kuba looks uneasy, but he answers anyway. “It was Clune.”

Brendan glances across the way, past the camera men situated between the benches, and searches out Rich Clune. Brendan can’t find him on the bench; he must have gotten five and a game. Brendan will just have to deal with him later.

When he looks back at Abby, he’s been lashed to the backboard, and his head has been strapped into the immobilizer. Abby’s eyes blink up at the rafters and he laces his fingers over his chest.

The paramedics wheel him off the ice, to the tunnel, and Brendan scurries down the length of the bench to tap Abby on the shin pads with his gloved fist. The paramedics pause for a moment and Abby reaches out, bumping his wet knuckles against Brendan’s outstretched glove.

“I’ll be fine,” Abby chokes out, sounding hoarse, wrecked.

Brendan offers Abby what he hopes is a reassuring smile. Brendan has a great smile, everyone loves his smile, but he isn’t sure he quite pulls ‘reassuring’ off. “ ‘Course you will. See you after the game, bud.”

“You got it.” Abby drops his hand back over his chest and they finally wheel him away.

-

They end up losing the game, but all anyone really cares about is updates on Abby’s health. Babcock steps to the front of the lockerroom, cutting in front of the widescreen TV that’s currently playing back highlights— _more like lowlights_ , Brendan thinks darkly—of the game, including Abby’s injury.

“They took Abs to Beaumont Hospital,” Babcock announces, shoving his hands in his pockets. “He’s awake and alert, and they say he never lost consciousness. They’re gonna runs some more tests tonight, we’ll know more in the morning. See you tomorrow, gentlemen.”

After Brendan’s showered and changed, he gathers up all Abby’s gear to take back to his apartment for him. Brendan also makes a mental reminder to feed Abby’s cats and water his plants. Hell, Brendan might as well stay at Abby’s place for the night and cat-sit or something. It would be the proper, best-friend thing to do.

Unfortunately, Abby’s usually Brendan’s ride to the Joe, so he hitches a ride home with Helmer, who lives in the same apartment building.

Helmer is bubbly and chatty tonight, gushing on and on about what his infant daughter can do now. While Brendan likes Helmer and is usually eager to hear about Reece’s escapades, all he really wants to do right now is mope and worry and check his phone for updates on Abby’s condition.

“Reece wants to play hockey like her daddy,” Helmer gushes, grinning over at Brendan. Brendan wonders if it would be inappropriate to haul off and slug Helmer right now. “We’re thinking of putting her in beginner skating lessons already.”

“That’s nice,” Brendan says, distractedly, as he scrolls through the messages on his phone.

“Devon wants her to do other things too, besides hockey, and I think she’s right, of course. But...” Helmer trails off, sounding deflated. “You’re not even listening.”

“No, I am. Go on.” Brendan lowers his phone and smiles at Helmer, feeling vaguely guilty.

“You’re worried about Abby,” Helmer says, bright blue eyes dimming a little bit.

“He’ll be fine.” Brendan turns his attention back to his phone before sliding his thumb across the screen and shutting it down.

“Of course. But I can’t blame you for being worried,” he says.

Brendan sighs. “I just can’t get that image of him out of my head. You know? Him lying there looking all, like, dead and shit?”

Helmer sighs too. “Yeah, but they’ve got protocols in place. And he’s at a really good hospital. They’ll do their best to make sure he’s okay.”

“I know.” Brendan closes down his phone and tucks it in his jacket pocket.

Helmer reaches out and pats him on the knee. “Abby will be fine.”

Brendan nods. He knows Helmer is right, that he’s just being silly, but he still feels unsettled. He can still feel that sick twist in his gut.

-

Abby comes home a couple days later while Brendan’s in his sterile, stainless steel kitchen, scooping some wet food out of a can for Hank and Pavs, Abby’s cats (Brendan makes a mental note to rib Abby for naming his cats after their teammates once Abby’s up to it). Hank noses Pavs out of the way and tries to shove his face into the can of food and Brendan laughs, gently nudging him aside.

“Come on, buddy. You wait your turn.” Brendan finishes spooning off the food into bowls and sets them aside for the cats.

Abby takes that moment to announce his arrival by dropping his bag of hockey gear noisily on the floor. The sticks clatter against the hardwood. “Smitty? What are you doing here?”

“Oh. I was just looking after the cats while you were in the hospital,” Brendan explains, flushing in embarrassment even though he has nothing to be embarrassed by.

Abby screw his face up and rubs a hand through his shaggy blond hair. “Oh. Thanks,” he says. “I thought my sister was gonna come by and take care of them.”

Brendan had talked Abby’s sister out of cat-sitting, but he isn’t about to tell _him_ that. He sounds foggy, just a bit, like he’s not quite all the way back to being himself. Brendan can see faint red creases on his forehead from where he smacked his head on the dashers after Clune—Brendan grits his teeth involuntarily—nailed him with his elbow.

“How are you feeling, buddy?” Brendan asks, abandoning the cats to their meal. “You need me to help you with anything?”

Abby shakes his head slowly, wincing. “No. I’m fine. I just... Smitty, did you wax my floors?”

“Yeah,” Brendan says, grinning at Abby and taking him by the elbow to guide him over to the couch. “I wanted the place to look nice for you when you got back.”

“You really didn’t need to do that,” Abby says, sighing, letting Brendan sit him down on the couch.

Brendan picks up the remote from the coffee table and sticks it in Abby’s hands. “I DVR’d _Game of Thrones_ for you. Joffrey’s a little prick.”

Abby frowns and puts the remote down. “Thanks, man. Sorry, I don’t think I can deal with the TV today. Actually...” He looks around before letting his clear blue eyes come to rest on the bay window that overlooks the city, and the curtains that frame it. “Could you close the curtains? The light, it’s hurting my head, a little bit.”

“Sure, man.” Brendan goes over and pulls the drapes closed. “Sorry. I didn’t think about that.”

“It’s okay. The doctors said the concussion’s not too serious, but everything’s gonna be a little sensitive for a while,” Abby says, shrugging off his heavy winter coat and folding it into a makeshift pillow. He kicks off his boots and lays out on the couch, pulling his coat under his head.

Brendan stands by the window and glances over at Abby. “You want me to go?”

Abby waves a hand at him from the couch. “Nah. You don’t have to if you don’t want. It’s just, I’m not gonna be such good company for a little while.”

Brendan comes over, lifts Abby’s socked feet carefully and sits down, pulling them into his lap. “It’s all right, buddy. I don’t have anything better to do than babysit you.” Brendan flashes Abby a grin, laughing when Abby lifts a hand and flips him off.

Brendan sits with Abby until he realizes his friend has conked out right there on the couch with his feet in Brendan’s lap. After pulling some stealthy _Mission: Impossible_ moves and extracting himself out from under Abby, he gets a warm fuzzy blanket out of the linen closet in the hall. Brendan tosses the blanket over Abby, tucking it gently around him.

One of the cats hops up on top of Abby, kneading at him with his paws until he seems satisfied, and curls into a ball.

Brendan rubs the cat between his soft gray ears and quietly lets himself out.

-

Brendan lets himself into Abby’s apartment the next morning, arms loaded with paper bags of groceries and the last few days’ worth of newspapers and mail. All the lights are off and the curtains are drawn. Brendan can see Abby lying there on the couch, his bare feet hanging over the armrest; he wonders if Abby’s moved an inch since Brendan left him the previous night.

Brendan sets the bags on the counter in the kitchen and comes over to the couch. Abby’s staring up at the ceiling, his blue eyes hazy.

“Hey, buddy. You okay? I brought you some groceries. And your mail. It was piling up in your mailbox,” Brendan says.

Abby closes his eyes slowly and swallows, before responding. “Yeah, Smitty. I—I’m fine,” he says, hoarsely, sounding anything but fine.

Brendan’s heart clutches in his chest. Abby sounds rough, like he’s been crying or something, and it makes Brendan feel sick to his stomach. “You need anything?”

“No,” Abby says, sighing, eyes still closed. “My head just really hurts.”

Brendan walks over to the couch and crouches down by the armrest, resting a hand on Abby’s shoulder. “You want me to call the doctor?”

“No. Look, it’s fine... I—I just.” Abby stops abruptly and makes an angry, aborted sound.

“What?” Brendan asks.

“Nothing. I just lost my train of thought.” Abby opens his eyes and tries to focus on Brendan before giving up and looking away. “I don’t remember what happened.”

“What?” Brendan sits back on his heels.

“I was trying to remember what happened, how I got hurt but I can’t. Piet said I got an elbow.” 

“Yeah. It was Clune,” Brendan says, touching Abby’s shoulder again. “I’m gonna get him back, man.”

Abby makes a face like he’s just tasted something sour and unpleasant. “Don’t do anything dumb, Smitty. Come on. Let Shanahan handle that.”

“It’s not enough, Abs. He got just three games because he had no prior record.” Brendan spits the words out. “You’re gonna be out a hell of a lot longer than him.”

Abby shrugs. “What can you do? You gotta roll with the punches, man.”

Brendan huffs angrily and crosses his arms over his chest. “Should’ve got more.”

“Still, beating him up isn’t gonna help anything,” Abby points out.

Brendan sighs. “I’m sorry. You’re right,” he says, feeling like a heel.

“Come over here and shut up,” Abby says, patting the empty spot on the couch next to him. “You’re hurting my head.”

Brendan allows himself a small smile and settles on the couch. He bumps his knee into Abby’s and grins at him when he looks over. “Wanna get wasted and watch _Project Runway_?”

Abby shakes his head and frowns. “Dude, not with all the painkillers I’m currently on.”

“Oh, right. I forgot,” Brendan says, patting Abby on the knee. “Sorry, man. Want me to order out? Could get some Little Caesar’s or something.”

“I’m not really that hungry,” Abby says, sighing.

Brendan frowns a little, reaching out to pat Abby on the knee before thinking better of it. “How’s the melon?”

“What do you think?” Abby gives Brendan a scathing look. “I feel miserable. I puked twice today. And lights still hurt my eyes.”

“I’m sorry, man,” Brendan says. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“You’ve done enough,” Abby says, settling back and closing his eyes. 

He rests his hands over his chest and, for a moment, Brendan thinks Abby’s drifted off on him. Brendan gets up to go look for the afghan, but Abby reaches out and latches onto Brendan’s arm, tugging him back down.

“What?” Brendan asks.

“Don’t. Just stop moving around so much, it hurts my head.”

“Sorry. Um, we can take a nap if you want,” Brendan says.

“Yeah, sure. That sounds good,” Abby says. 

Before Brendan can plan his next course of action, Abby curls up on the couch next to him and pillows his head on Brendan’s shoulder. Brendan isn’t sure how healthy that is, considering his shoulder isn’t the softest, most pillow-y thing for Abby’s head at the moment, but he lets it go.

In a few minutes, Abby’s breaths even out, and Brendan relaxes long enough to let himself drift off to sleep too.

-

Brendan wakes up to a face full of cat butt. There’s also drool pooling at the corner of his mouth, but Brendan is definitely more concerned about the cat butt. Hank’s—or Pavs’, he can never tell Abby’s cats apart—swishes his tail in Brendan’s face. When Brendan pats the space next to him for Abby, the cushion is cold and empty.

“Good morning to you too—” Brendan checks the tags on the cat’s spiked leather collar “Hank.” Brendan gently lifts the cat off his chest and turns him to cradle him against his chest. Hank tips his head up and Brendan obliges him by stroking him under the chin. “Where’s your daddy?”

Hank swishes his tail some more, which Brendan thinks is cat-language for _I’m going to claw your face to shreds in a couple seconds if you don’t put me down_ , and lets him go.

Brendan hears a terrible retching noise then and, at first, he thinks Pavs is coughing up a hairball. Then it happens again, deeper and phlegmier and grosser, and Brendan realizes it’s Abby.

Brendan gets up and heads down the hall for Abby’s room. The bedsheets are rucked off the bed, and clothes are strewn about the floor. It smells like socks. A lot of unwashed socks.

Brendan pokes his head into the bathroom. Abby’s hunched over the toilet bowl, fingers gripping the sides tight enough that his knuckles are white.

“Hey, bud. You need me to get you anything? Want me to call Piet?” Brendan leans against the doorframe.

Abby sits back a little to wipe at his mouth and groan miserably. “No. I’m fine,” he says, refusing to quite make eye contact with Brendan.

“You sure sound fine,” Brendan quips.

“Fuck you,” Abby says, without much heat.

“Look, I’m just trying to help,” Brendan says, cheeks flushing.

“I know that. I’m sorry.” Abby sits back with a heavy thump against the wall.

“Careful, man. Your head.” Brendan edges his way into the tiny bathroom and crouches down by Abby’s side. He grabs a towel off the towel rack over Abby’s head and uses it to wipe ineffectually at his face. “You’ve, um, got puke on your face.”

“I know that,” Abby says, scowling at him.

“Sorry. Maybe you should take a shower or something. I kinda suck at this.” Brendan looks away, guiltily.

“I noticed.” Abby sighs, then lets out a loud, foul-smelling belch. “Blech. Tastes like puke.”

“Thanks for sharing.”

 _That_ gets a slight smile from Abby, and Brendan pushes away the tight, happy feeling that wraps around his chest. 

Abby reaches out, knocks Brendan on the shoulder with his fist. “Anytime, buddy.”

-

Brendan spends another night at Abby’s, curled up on the couch, Pavs lounging on his chest. He probably should have gone home hours—days, let’s be real here—ago. Abby’s already starting to seem more like himself, brain-fog clearing up some. He definitely doesn’t need Brendan helicoptering like a nosy parent anymore, that’s for sure.

Brendan sighs and strokes the cat between its ears.

Brendan knows once Abby’s completely okay, he won’t need him like this anymore. They're friends, sure—Brendan would even say they’re best friends—but he’d never been all up in Abby’s business like this before the injury. Would Abby even want him to stick around after this?

Pavs shifts on Brendan’s chest, tucking his paws and tail under his body. When Brendan rubs under Pavs’ chin, he can feel the vibrations as he purrs contentedly. Brendan sighs again, ruffling the fur on Pavs’ back, making his ears twitch.

“You’re still up?”

Brendan looks up; Abby is lingering there in the doorway, rubbing at his bleary eyes with one hand, a glass of water clutched in the other.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Brendan admits, stilling a hand over Pavs’ back. Pavs swishes his tail in Brendan's face.

"Neither could I," Abby says, leaning against the doorframe. "What's up?"


	10. Name on the Wrist — Niklas Kronwall/Brad Stuart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nik’s sixteen when the name comes in, the tip of an invisible pen nib scratching across skin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s what happens when one person ends up with someone’s name on their wrist, and the other person has someone else’s.
> 
> All dialogue between Swedes can be assumed to be in Swedish.

**Name on the Wrist — Niklas Kronwall/Brad Stuart — Teen and Up**

Nik’s sixteen when the name comes in, the tip of an invisible pen nib scratching across the skin of his wrist. The name— **Brad Stuart** , _a good, solid, sturdy name_ , Nik thinks—unfurls in slopes, black ink over pale skin and faint blue veins. When it’s finished, he touches the skin there lightly, over his pounding pulse. He rubs his thumb at it to see if it’ll smear or smudge, even though he knows it won’t. It’s a part of him now, as much a part of him as his blood and bones are. As much a part of him as hockey.

Staffan demands to see and immediately starts teasing him because it’s a guy, but their mom silences him with just one stony look. Nik flushes in shame at Staffan’s teasing and tugs his shirtsleeve down over his wrist to obscure the name, but his mom stills a hand on his shoulder and shakes her head.

“Don’t cover your wrist. You should never be ashamed,” she says, still lancing Staffan with her icy gaze. She turns her eyes on Nik and the winter chill melts away as she quirks a small smile at him. “You and Brad will be very happy someday. That’s something to celebrate.” 

When his mother moves her hand from his shoulder to chuck him under the chin, Nik can see his dad’s name spelled out on her wrist in his familiar scrawl.

Nik sticks his tongue out at Staffan over her shoulder. Staffan flips him off cheerily.

*

Nik goes stateside a few years later, after he gets drafted, to take in some games and visit the city he’ll—hopefully—play hockey in for years and years to come. 

He hears stories about Detroit though, how it’s not such a nice city, how no one who plays for the Red Wings actually lives downtown, how it’s the murder capital of the world. Detroit is a hard city with a well-earned reputation. 

Nik finds that Detroit actually isn’t as bad as his brothers and friends had been making it out to be. It’s a hard city, yes, even ugly in some places, but he thinks he rather likes it. 

On the car ride from the airport, Nik and Henrik Zetterberg, another one of the Red Wings’ highly touted draft picks, play “I spy” with the colorful graffiti and burnt out husks of abandoned houses they pass by. He feels a certain kind of kinship to this city, for some reason.

The Red Wings are playing the San José Sharks later that evening. The team lets Nik and Hank take a tour of the arena while the Sharks have their morning practice. They both head to the bench to watch the Sharks, and take touristy photos with their disposable cameras while San José’s skaters whiz by in the background.

“Look at all this ice,” Hank says, breathlessly, as he lifts his camera and snaps one of the Sharks skating in on the goalie, the puck dangling on the end of his stick.

Nik watches as the skater pulls a series of fancy dekes and just misses pushing the puck past the goalie’s outstretched glove. “It’s so... _small_.”

The ice here looks almost claustrophobic compared to the ice back home in Sweden. Nik imagines going into the corner to battle for a puck, fighting for purchase, a tangle of sticks and skates and bodies.

“It’s different, yes,” Hank agrees, lowering his camera. “It’ll take some getting used to. But can’t you see yourself out there? Playing against the best of the best?”

Nik looks back out at the ice, tries to envision himself out there too, donning a red and white jersey, maybe even lifting a Stanley Cup. Images flicker in his mind’s eye like a movie reel, he can see it all so clearly. This will be his home someday, Nik is sure of it.

“Hey, watch out!”

Nik looks up in time to see an errant puck come flying toward him. He ducks, and the puck ricochets harmlessly off the glass partition behind him. One of the Sharks’ players skates over, stick in hands, scrutinizing Nik with icy blue eyes.

“You guys spying on us or what?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at Nik.

Nik reaches up and sweeps his unkempt hair out of his face, trying to gather himself and rein in his galloping heartbeat. “I—I, no, of course not. We’re—”

“They just let us have a tour of the place,” Hank cuts in smoothly.

The guy slips his glove off and offers his hand, and Nik finds himself stealing a glance at the name on his wrist. Nik accepts the gesture and pumps his hand, making sure his grip is firm. “Hi. I’m Nik. Nik Kronwall.”

“Brad Stuart,” the guy says.

Nik feels a sudden jolt, tingling heat lacing up through his fingertips, and he jerks his hand away before he really has time to stop and think about that. “Brad Stuart? You’re Brad Stuart?”

Stuart smiles at him, eyes brightening. “You’ve heard of me over in Sweden?”

“Oh, of course,” Nik lies. The fingers of his right hand still tingle, still remember Stuart’s touch. He tucks his hand into his pocket. 

“Well, that’s pretty damned cool,” Stuart says, slipping the fingers of his left hand into the sleeve of his jersey, tugging down on an opaque plastic wrist guard.

Nik watches the guard settle in place over the name—Nik catches a glimpse of **Melissa** , written in curling feminine writing—on his wrist. This obviously can’t be Nik’s **Brad Stuart** and yet... He rubs his fingers over his own wrist, absently. The name throbs almost painfully under his sleeve, like a fresh bruise.

“Sorry to interrupt, but we gotta go,” Hank says, not at all apologetically, as he grabs Nik by the arm and jerks him away.

Once they’re back in the players’ lounge, Hank deposits Nik in one of the leather recliners and glares down at him, hands on his hips.

“What?” Nik asks, looking up at him.

“What was that? Back there, with that Stuart guy,” Hank says, sounding accusatory.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nik says, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt to undo the wrist-guard.

Hank catches a glimpse of the name on Nik’s wrist then. “Oh, God. He’s the one. It’s him.”

“It can’t be,” Nik says, scratching over the peaks and valleys inked into his skin. “He—he didn’t have my name on his wrist.”

Hank reaches down, grabs Nik’s wrist gently, and turns it, inspecting it. “We’ll have to get something with his signature on it... I can go back and ask for an autograph. Then we can compare.”

“Don’t do that! That’s embarrassing,” Nik says, jerking his wrist back.

“How else will you know for sure?” Hank asks.

“It’s not him, Hank. It can’t be.” Nik rubs his wrist.

Hank gives Nik a skeptical look, lips pursed, but doesn’t pursue it any further. “Okay... Let’s go get something to eat. I’m dying.”

Nik—grateful for a distraction from Stuart and the way the name burned on his wrist when their eyes met—eagerly assents, and they leave.

*

Nik heads back to Sweden with Hank a few days later, and forgets all about Stuart. Rather than worry about the name on his wrist, Nik pours himself completely into hockey, into building up strength and putting on weight, into preparing himself for a life in the NHL. He’d been able to get away with things in Sweden that he knows he won’t be able to in America. He won’t catch so many forwards with their heads down as he had in Sweden.

Nik was a first round pick, but he has to get better. He really should have been drafted the year before, but he’d been passed over because of his size and strength, or lack thereof. He’ll get bigger and stronger, and try to impress some people in Detroit.


	11. Accidental Soulbond/Poly — Shea Weber/Zach Parise/Ryan Suter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Shea feels frayed and raw, like he’s made out of nothing but open nerve endings._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna stop tagging these because it's getting unwieldy. 
> 
> I vomited out this idea on twitter one day and somehow coerced myself into writing it.
> 
> I don’t know how plausible it would be for members of Team Canada and Team USA to run into each other at the Olympic Village, so. /waves artistic license

**Accidental Soulbond/Poly — Shea Weber/Zach Parise/Ryan Suter — Teen and Up**

Shea feels frayed and raw, like he’s made out of nothing but open nerve endings. The doctors told him this was normal, that having your bond severed was _supposed_ to feel like this, but that was months and months ago. He figures he should have healed by now. 

Maybe it was because he hadn’t bothered to find a new bondmate after Ryan left for Minnesota. 

Maybe it was because it was _Ryan_. 

Shea had heard when the bond was strong, having it severed meant it hurt longer, hurt _more_.

This is just ridiculous, though. It’s February, well over a year since Ryan bolted to be by fucking Zach Parise’s side, and Shea still feels as raw as he did when Ryan called him to tell him he wasn’t coming back.

Then again, if their bond had been strong enough, Ryan never would have broken it in the first place.


	12. Four Guys Niklas Kronwall Pined For — Niklas Kronwall/Multi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a 4+1 fic. 
> 
> The pairings were:
> 
> Niklas Kronwall/Nicklas Lidström  
> Niklas Kronwall/Brad Stuart  
> Niklas Kronwall/Jiri Fischer  
> Niklas Kronwall/Henrik Zetterberg  
> Niklas Kronwall/Original Male Character

**Four Guys Niklas Kronwall Pined For (and The One Who Loved Him Back) — Niklas Kronwall/Multi — General Audiences**

Nik doesn’t mean to fall for Lidas. It’s just a thing that happens unexpectedly, like a sharp blow to the head while he’s not paying attention. 

If Nik had had a say, he wouldn’t have chosen Lidas. He’s married, for one, with an army of perfect blond clones and a perfect blond wife. 

He’s also the Perfect Human and Nik is anything but perfect. He’s only Nik Jr., the “other Nik.”

**ii. Brad Stuart**

He falls for Stuie upon first sight. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly he descends when they meet for the first time, after the trade.

Stuie, like Lidas, is married with a beautiful wife and a brood of perfect blond children. The first thing he does when he gets to his new locker is proudly display a picture of his pregnant wife and their two kids.

That doesn’t stop Nik’s traitorous heart, though.


	13. girl!Wings 'verse — Henrik Zetterberg & Pavel Datsyuk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Z never intends to come out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in my girl!Wings 'verse. Henrika Zetterberg is a lesbian. This was supposed to deal with her relationship with Pavel Datsyuk and religious homophobia but I couldn't bring myself to finish it.

**girl!Wings 'verse — Henrik Zetterberg & Pavel Datsyuk — Teen and Up**

Z never intends to come out. In fact, her agent had advised her against it, telling her to wait until her playing days were over. 

“There’s never been an active, openly gay NHLer,” he’d told her after she signed her first contract. 

At the time, she brushed the comment off. She, Henrika Zetterberg, was about to put her signature on that dotted line and become the Detroit Red Wings’ first ever female player. She was making history. She didn’t have time to worry about the rest of her life. 

Now, in retrospect, she thinks it had been a warning.

It wasn’t something they talked about much, Z and her agent, but he knew. She’d always been fairly open as a teenager back in Sweden. It had been a little easier to be herself there than in the States.

When Z came to Michigan to start her professional career, she brought her “personal assistant” with her. That’s what all the papers said. The Detroit media accepted the lie and disseminated it, and all was well. The only places that whispered a hint of the truth were the gossip sites that players sometimes talked about when they were bored. No one ever took them seriously.

Desirée hadn’t minded, at first. They’d been young and idealistic and in love, and hadn’t cared about labels. Z had hockey and Desi, and that’s all she wanted, all she needed. 

Z can’t blame Desi for growing tired of the inaccurate label and all the secrecy, though. She’d finally just gotten sick of it and went back home a few years ago.

Coming out is an accident, though, something Z hadn’t planned on or anticipated. She certainly hadn’t intended to come out to _Pavel_. Pavel, her best friend on the team, Pavel who is devoutly religious and just as devoted to old world tradition and propriety.

Pavel, who sometimes quotes scripture as inspiration. Pavel, who wears a heavy gold crucifix under his layers, against his chest.

Z has never been what one would consider religious. Sweden is known for being atheist or, at the very least, benignly indifferent toward religion and Z’s family is no exception. They celebrated the big holidays, like Christmas and Easter, but they didn’t go to church regularly and Z doesn’t remember ever seeing a crucifix in their house.

She hasn’t ever really thought about it—coming out—before, and definitely not to Pavel. Z sees the gleaming gold crucifix, hears the whispered Russian prayers, and knows to keep quiet. She can’t risk upsetting the applecart, can’t risk becoming a distraction. No one’s exactly come out and said this to her, but she knows in her heart that it’s true.


	14. Regency AU Crack — Jonathan Ericsson/Niklas Kronwall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be Xmas fic for annabeth. She wanted a genderswap regency AU. I only got this far before I gave up.

**Regency AU Crack — Jonathan Ericsson/Niklas Kronwall, unrequited Jonathan Ericsson/Brad Stuart — General Audiences**

Johanna Ericsson would have done anything to be Lord Bradley Stuart’s wife, perhaps even commit murder. Unfortunately for Johanna, Lord Stuart was already wed. And, of course, committing murder guaranteed exactly nothing; Lord Stuart was unfailingly devoted to his wife, Lady Melissa, and their ever-expanding brood of blue-eyed, flaxen-haired children. He was often seen parading them about town, head held high, as if to boast that this woman and children were his. 

The Stuart family was absolutely perfect in every way; they were the ideal family. Lord Stuart was a devoted husband, Lady Melissa was charming and beautiful, and their children were always impeccably dressed and well-mannered.

Johanna had come to despise Lady Melissa, through no fault of her own. Lady Melissa had always been kind to her whenever they had occasion to meet, but the embers of hatred still simmered hotly in Johanna’s breast.


	15. Fallen Angel AU — Sean Avery/Martin Brodeur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is hideously old!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole stupid thing was inspired by a line in a Death Cab song.

**Fallen Angel AU — Sean Avery/Martin Brodeur — Teen and Up**

Sean remembers the push more than the fall. Falling is falling, but a push is memorable. A hard shove and then, suddenly, he’s plummeting through cloud and star, to the cold, hard earth below. The descent begins to blur in his mind after a few hours of it, streaks of cloud and light as he falls, falls, falls. All he can focus on is the burn between his shoulder blades in the shape of the big guy’s hand. 

He’s kind of surprised it took the guy this long to tire of him, anyways. If he’d been the one in charge, he probably would’ve dispatched himself much earlier.

He’s only heard stories about this— _falling_ —from those who’ve been around longer than he has. 

Or, to put it accurately, _was_. 

The ones who were around when Lucifer fell don’t like to talk about it much, but the younger ones are all over that shit, like to gather audiences at their feet and tell a couple millennia’s worth of stories.

He’d always kind of thought it was a tale the old ones had made up to scare the young ones and put them in their place. The kind of tale made up specifically to scare Sean into behaving, falling into line with the others.

It didn’t work, obviously, and now he’s _falling_.

He wonders, idly, whether or not it will hurt. Sean’s never known pain, and he has to admit he’s kind of afraid.

It turns out he shouldn’t have worried about the pain. He doesn’t end up impaled on some jackwagon’s weathervane or dashed into a million pieces on the ground, like he’d been fearing.

He ends up in some rich asshole’s backyard, in his swimming pool, of all places.

It does hurt, a little bit, when he makes contact with the water, but Sean supposes it could be worse. The water slows his momentum down just enough and even though he ends up with mouthfuls of chlorinated water, ends up with his eyes stinging, and maybe a broken wing, he’s in one piece. So, yeah, it could definitely be worse. He’s heard the tales.

Sean breaks the surface of the water and tilts his head back, to the sky. He can see a faint streak of energy in his wake, but a gust of wind comes and blows it away. The water dries cool and sharp on his skin, drawing goosebumps. Sean shivers; he’d never been able to get used to weird shit like climates and seasons. In Heaven, it’s always room temperature. 

Sean rubs his bare arms and lets himself float on his back, unanchored, like a piece of driftwood.

He hears the scraping of metal on metal, then angry voices shouting in a mix of French and English from the house. They must be the owners of the pool Sean’s just been unceremoniously dumped off in.

“I’ll call the police!” a man hollers out the window. “ _Enfant d'chienne_!”

Sean never bothered to learn French, but he has a distinct feeling he’s unwelcome here. He latches onto the pool ledge and pulls himself out of the water. The cool winds wrap around him, and he realizes he’s naked.

“You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy,” Sean mutters, rubbing his hands up and down his bare arms. He really needs to get the hell out of here before the French asshole comes out and clubs him to death or calls the police, or something.


	16. Red Wings wingfic — Gustav Nyquist & Henrik Zetterberg & Pavel Datsyuk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a direct sequel to [this](http://nullrefer.com/?http://archiveofourown.org/works/2469089).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends the purging of my hockey RPF.

**Red Wings wingfic — Gustav Nyquist & Henrik Zetterberg & Pavel Datsyuk — General Audiences**

The new wings ache and throb as they grow in. No one had warned him about that. When he goes to Hank and Pavel about the pain, they offer him sheepish smiles and apologies. It hadn’t hurt them nearly as much, they tell him. Their wings had grown in relatively pain-free.

The pain will stop eventually, they say, once his wings are fully grown, but that could take months or even years. For Hank, it took only a handful of weeks before his wings—pale yellow, gilded in gold—came in completely. For Pavel—his wings are a deep red like Fedorov’s—it took a full year.

Sometimes Gus holds up a small mirror and twists and contorts himself until he can see the two swollen nubs on his back. When he prods them gently, hardly any pressure at all, they pulse with pain. Throwing back a couple Ibuprofen helps, but only for a little while. Eventually, he turns to stronger drugs to manage the pain.

(“Sergei’s wings not stop growing until he leave for Anaheim,” Pavel informs him one day in the lockerroom, as he hands Gus a stack of glossy pamphlets with titles like _Wing Care and You_ and _So You Have Wings Now_. “Why? No one can say.”)

Gus is supposed to rub this strange, foul-smelling ointment he got from the team trainer into them, but sometimes he just forgets. Pavel tells him to read the pamphlets on wing care, but he usually ends up just tossing them in his locker and forgetting they exist.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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